


Doppelbanghim

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Bronze (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Infinity War, Alternate Universe - No Sokovia Accords, Anal Sex, Booty Calls, Bottom Steve Rogers, Doppelganger, Endgame stucky, Eventual Happy Ending, Fuckbuddies, Hook-Up, I'm Sorry Captain America, Just that Lance is a dick and he looks like Bucky, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, No knowledge of The Bronze necessary, Phone Sex, Pining Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Sex Toys, Smut, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Surprisingly not crack, This actually has some plot I swear, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-08-09 01:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16440548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Bucky Barnes was, despite appearances, a total sweetheart. Kind, loyal, handsome. Steve loved him from the moment he met him. But Bucky Barnes was long dead, and Steve had taken to drowning his sorrows in whiskey that can't even get him drunk.Lance Tucker was, unsurprisingly, a total fucking asshole. But he also looked so much like Steve's long lost love that he almost fell off his stool at the sight of the cocksure man at the bar, chatting up anything that moved.Steve was, of course, completely fucked.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I have made this anonymous, but I will still be updating it   
> (29 June 2019)

He’s not sure why he came to the bar in the first place, hating the throb of the music and the stench of sweat and alcohol. The whiskey burnt his throat, but he was as sober as ever, the serum mocking his wish to drink his problems away.

It had only been two months since he woke up, the world he knew gone and his remaining friends dead or dying. It was not a surprise how he felt, the same grief enveloping him as when he watched his best friend fall. Grief seemed to be his only constant; he’d plunged into the ice feeling it and he’d woken up feeling it.

But there was something cathartic about drinking miserably at a shady bar on a weeknight that appealed to him in a way he never thought would. He watched people flirt and dance on the darkened floor, the movement erotic and so far from the dancehalls of his youth. He tried not to watch the couples in the shadowed booths furthest from him, brazenly giving each other sexual favours under the table. Even though the club was seedy as hell, he liked the atmosphere, liked that no-one cared about anyone else’s business, that there were males dancing with males, and females dancing with females, and even triads taking it in turns to make-out on the dancefloor. No-one blinked an eye when these couples practically ground against each other on their way to the bathroom, or slipped through the side-door into the privacy of the grimy alley. Or got each other off in the corner, apparently.

Though the best part was that they didn’t care _who_ anyone was. His face was still plastered all over the news on at least a weekly basis, but not one person had come up to him like they did in the street, waving photos, and flashing cameras. Instead it was an appreciative glace at most, and a wink of recognition from the bartender. He recognised others too, despite his limited knowledge of current celebrities. Athletes from when he’d tried to catch up with baseball, and people he’d seen in passing as he flicked through the TV channels on one of his bad days. No-one seemed to pay them any mind either, aside from those that were sitting on their laps and being flirted with, or running enthusiastic hands across their chests.

That first night he just watched, drinking whiskey after whiskey until closing time.

 

* * *

 

 

It was two weeks before he visited the bar again, when his memories left him feeling particularly morose. Despite the crowds of last time, and the usual tracking of his every movement by paparazzi and fans alike, his night at the club had been undocumented. Not a single photo surfaced, except of him leaving his house in the early evening. He was sure SHIELD was keeping track of him, probably had Natasha on his case, so maybe they were behind the suppression of information. Or the club’s security could just be that good.

Either way, he found himself back at the bar, back to his whiskeys and wistful observations of people. He had been there for a few hours, resolute in his position at the bar, when a face caught his eye, had him almost falling off his stool.

With a second glace he steadied himself, but his heart still thumped. The man bore more than just a passing resemblance to his long dead friend, his hair the same colouring, the face structure almost a perfect replica, if a little sharper and his brow less pronounced. His shoulders were a little less broad, more lithe than the dock-worker, but his arms were thick and muscled. He even had that same dimple on his chin that drove Steve crazy back in the forties.

He watched, entranced, as the doppelganger flirted with a busty blonde, one arm resting on the back of the booth as he leaned into her space, the other hand boldly making its way up her thigh. He whispered something into her ear with a lecherous grin, filthy words making the woman baulk and slap his hands away and storm off. He didn’t even look phased by the painful rejection, just shrugged to himself and turned his attentions to a red-head who had been giving him eyes across the table. He basically picked from where he left off with the other woman, who instead blushed at the words being uttered, even as his gaze was raking over a man whose shirt had somehow ended up unbuttoned.

He might have looked like Bucky, and seemed as flirtatious, but it was in a completely different manner to the man he knew back home. Where Bucky enjoyed the company, the back-and-forth between him and his dame, making her laugh and showing her a good time, this man clearly saw people merely as conquests, a game to try and win, where the prize was a night in his bed. Bucky was charming where this man was obnoxious, was sweet and respectful where this man was bold and brash.

Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the familiar face, sorrow washing over him at the painful reminder of what he had lost. He stayed long enough to finish his drink and watch the man head to the bathroom with the red-head, before he slipped off his chair and headed home.

 

* * *

 

 

He found himself back there after a mere three days, three days of sketching that face he knew so well, never quite able to do justice to his own memories. It wasn’t as though he had any indication the man would be there again, but he needed to get out of his own head.

His usual seat at the bar was taken, so he slipped into an empty booth with a full view of the room. The bartender occasionally came over to refill his glass, and Steve found he didn’t have the energy to dissuade him from the extra service.

To his surprise, the door opened not long after his fourth drink and the man walked in, skinny jeans hugging his thighs and tight shirt leaving little to the imagination. He looked just as good as before, but in the lingering light of the street he could see that the smile was all wrong, too arrogant and ingenuine, eyes lacking the sincerity Bucky’s always held. He could see now that his eyes weren’t the ice blue he’d been drawn to, but a deep chocolate brown.

He still watched him though. Watched him hit on anyone who ever glanced his way, watched him head to the bathroom with no less than three separate women and two men, watched him flirt with two people who were very obviously a couple and then watched him leave with them, the man kissing his neck while the woman ran her hands down his chest.

He ordered another drink, trying not to think what it would be like to go home with the man.

 

* * *

 

 

It carried on like that for weeks. It reached the point where he was at the bar at least three times a week, and he was half-convinced he was funding the bar with the amount he spent there.

He would sit dutifully at the bar with his drink, waiting for the man to come in. On the days he did show, he would immediately look at Steve and wink, before sauntering off into a booth with several attractive men and woman, and Steve would watch him avidly until the man left with his paramour for the night. Then he would stay for one more drink, tip the bartender generously, and head back to his empty apartment.

On the days the man didn’t come, Steve would drink mulishly until closing, and spend the rest of the night wandering around Brooklyn, lost in his own memories.

It was late, close to final call, and he was staring into the bottom of his glass, trying to hide his disappointment that tonight was a no show. He had drained his first few glasses so fast that the bartender just gave him the bottle to serve himself. He was tempted to swig from the bottle, but decided that he should at least try to maintain some civility.

He was seldom approached by anyone, the dejected vibe radiating off him, so he startled a little when someone pushed a stool to the side and leant back against the bar next to him. Looking up, he was amazed to see that it was the man, staring at him heatedly.

“See something you like?” he said, “Been staring at me for weeks. Hard not to notice a hot thing like you giving me the eyes.”

His voice was nothing like Bucky’s, lighter and less gravely. Steve floundered over his words, “I, uh... well. You remind me of someone, is all.”

“Yeah? Did you stare at his ass as much as you like staring at mine?”

He ducked his head, embarrassed, but the man just sighed impatiently.

“Look, I don’t care what weird pining you have, or why you spend most nights trying to drown your sorrows in this dive.” He said, pressing himself into Steve’s side, one arm resting on the bar, the other snaking around his waist, “All I care is that you’re the hottest piece of ass in this shithole, and you’ve been eye-fucking me for the past month. So, how about we cut to the chase, and you come back to my place.”

“I don’t even know your name. You don’t even know mine.”

“Well, if you gotta know what name you’ll be screaming all night; it’s Lance.” His hands roamed, fingers brushing his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch, “And you’re not exactly inconspicuous, Captain.”

“Is this really how you get all those people to sleep with you?” he scowled at Lance’s crassness, and at his own excited reaction to it.

Lance huffed, stealing a sip of whiskey straight from the bottle, “No point in being coy or beating about the bush. I wanna fuck them, I tell them. They say no, I move on. Speaking of which, what d’ya say? Wanna fuck?”

Steve stared at him, evaluating. Before this interaction he had no intention of actually sleeping with Lance, he was just a reminder of that face he would never see again, of the gentle smile and charismatic laugh. He and Bucky had never been intimate, not in the way he’d always dreamed, and it felt wrong to tarnish his memory by sleeping with a man who could be his twin. But... Lance was different to Bucky, had none of the endearing qualities that he loved about the man. All he shared was his face, and even then, it was different, the wrong eyes and none of the charm. Maybe this is what he needed, one night to get it out of his system, and then he’d stop this charade and move on, live in the way his friends would have wanted him to.

He downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, standing and crowding into Lance’s space with a firm nod, “Let’s get out of here.”

Lance pushed him into the alley wall as soon as they were in the cool night air, devouring his lips in a filthy kiss, and grinding up against him. He could feel every inch of Lance pressing into him, the powerful muscle and his hard cock, and Steve couldn’t hold back a satisfied moan with every touch. There was no tenderness, no hesitance, just pure unaltered lust in both of them. It was only when Lance was fighting to get his hands down Steve’s pants that he pulled away, panting like his asthma had returned.

“Not... here...” he said breathlessly, “I live close, two blocks away.”

“I’m not waiting for a fucking taxi.” He drew his hands away anyway, pushing up his shirt instead to feel the super-soldier’s abs.

“Don’t have to, I came on my bike.”

This time Lance did pull away with a frown, “You had like a whole bottle of whiskey. Not letting you kill us both because you want some privacy when you suck this dick.”

“Can’t get drunk. Part of the serum.” He said desperately, dragging Lance out of the alley to where his bike was parked.

The ride, though short, was torturous. Lance hands were _everywhere_ , and more than once he had to swat them away from his dick. It didn’t help that he was achingly hard and Lance’s prick was rubbing against him in all the right ways. He was lucky that, even in the city that never sleeps, there was less traffic and tourists about, and they pulled up to the tower without crashing.

Lance stopped in his ministrations for long enough to take in the tower before him, whistling in awe, “Always thought it’d be Tony Stark I’d be fucking if I ever got into Stark Tower. Shame he’s stopped sleeping around or else I’d be riding that dick like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Can we please not talk about my friend’s dicks?” Steve said tiredly, leading Lance inside and into the private elevator.

He was promptly pushed against the wall again, Lance mouthing at his neck and rubbing Steve through his jeans, “Don’t worry, Captain, the only dick I’m interested in tonight is yours. Well unless Stark offers. Is he about, do you reckon?”

“You’re a fucking j-” he cut himself off. No. That was too close, too close to the teasing he and Bucky used to have, “Asshole.”

“I hope I’ll be fucking one in a minute, fuck, why the fuck is this elevator taking so long?”

As if on cue, the doors opened onto his floor, one side his apartment and the other Clint’s. He really hoped the archer was still away on his mission with Natasha. He barely unlocked the door before Lance was on him again, practically tearing off his shirt and fumbling with his fly.

“Fucking finally, your shirts are always begging to be ripped off. Fuck.”

Steve didn’t say anything, content to pull Lance’s t-shirt off and get his own fill of the sculpted abs beneath. He was a little taken aback at the tattoo, the medal ribbon dipping below his pants, but was too distracted by the hot skin to care.

As soon as his pants were off, Lance was pawing at his ass, groaning as he squeezed the firm cheeks, “God, this ass, thought it was just your jeans but, fuck, its perfect. Want to fuck this ass so good.”

“Yes,” Steve hissed, letting himself be pushed back against the kitchen table,

“Yeah? You wanna be fucked, huh?” he sucked a bruise into Steve’s neck, one he definitely would not be able to hide, “Want my cock in you?”

He could barely respond coherently, moaning in affirmation, “Ah, lube’s in the bedroom. Bedside draw.”

“Condoms too?”

Steve hesitated. He did have a few condoms, jokingly given to him by Nat, but he didn’t need them, not unless he was sleeping with a woman who wasn’t on the pill. And honestly, he preferred not to use them.

“No, I, uh, the serum means I can’t, um, catch anything.”

Lance blinked at him, but then sent him a lewd grin, “Holy shit, god bless America.”

Steve’s blush was still high on his cheeks when Lance returned with the lube, and somewhere along the way he’d stripped himself completely, revealing the full extent of the tattoo. He stared at the ribbon leading straight to the man’s cock; if he wasn’t so horny he’d be mortified that he was about to sleep with such an asshole.

“You’re looking at the number one prize, Captain,” Lance said, wrapping a hand around his cock to give Steve a show, “Turn over, baby, let me get a proper look at that beautiful ass.”

He was already pressing himself up against the table by the time Lance grabbed his hips, thrusting his dick in the cleft of Steve’s ass. Soon slick fingers were rubbing up against his perineum, pressing into him and making him moan loudly over the obscene sounds.

“Mmm, would you look at that, best ass I’ve ever seen, taking my fingers like it was made for it. Can’t wait to fuck you.”

He couldn’t deny that Lance’s words were a huge turn-on, a luxury he had never been able to afford in the forties. Any encounter he was lucky enough to have was a hasty, quiet affair, hushed moans, and paranoid freezing at even a slight creak. Even the few people he’d slept with since his return were quiet, though those encounters were more gentle touches, Steve fearful he would hurt them. But this, there was no gentleness, no reverence, it was rough and filthy and just what Steve needed.

“Lance,” he cried out, hole stretched by three fingers, brushing against his prostate, “just fuck me already.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Was his only reply before Steve was pushing back against the cock pressing into him.

There was no time to let Steve adjust, not that he needed it, just an immediate pounding that had him gripping the edge of the table and causing the wood to splinter. He didn’t bother to hold back his moans and cries, though at the back of his mind he was pissed that Lance had been right about him screaming out his name. He felt one hand release the firm hold on his hip, a palm sliding up his back to curl into his hair, forcing his head up and Lance’s cock deeper inside him. The table rattled noisily against the floor, mingled with the loud slapping of Lance’s hips against his ass and their ever-increasing moans.

Steve’s eyes rolled into the back of his head when Lance shifted his hips, now drilling his prostate with mind-numbingly hard thrusts, and it wasn’t long until he was coming, spurting onto the table top. He clenched down around Lance, who’s hips stuttered out of their rhythm, before he came with a low moan and a shout, thrusting in hard one last time.

The hand released from his hair, slipping to the table beside his head. Lance practically collapsed onto Steve’s back, laboured breathing puffing against his neck. There were no words spoken, no endearments or platitudes, no more roaming hands or post-coital kisses.

They lay there, half-asleep, before Lance roused himself, pushing himself up and admiring the expanse of skin below. He slapped Steve’s ass appreciatively, finally pulling out and heading to the bathroom to clean himself up.

Steve could feel the seed on his stomach beginning to dry, and the odd sensation of Lance’s cum slipping out of his hole. Fuck. He was in desperate need of a shower, reeking of whiskey and sweat and sex, and whatever aftershave Lance had doused himself in. Lance was finished in the bathroom by the time Steve had managed to stand on shaking legs, and gave him another unappreciated slap on the rear as he made his way into the kitchen. Steve glowered at him, but was too tired to argue and headed for the shower.

He wasn’t sure if Lance would stick around until he had washed, or would have bolted, so he was surprised when he stepped into the kitchen in just his towel to see Lance, stark naked, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Oh!” he said, the sound slipping out without him meaning it to, but to hell with it. As good as a lay this man was, he was a grade A asshole, “You’re still here.”

Lance smirked, “Duh. When I said you’d be screaming my name all night, I meant _all night._ Besides, I’m pretty sure you said something about sucking my dick.”

“No, that was you.”

“Was it? Well either way, someone’s dick is going to get sucked tonight. Maybe more than once.”

“That’s optimistic of you. Maybe I just want to get some sleep.”

“I’d believe that more if you weren’t trying to hide your boner right now,” Lance grinned, “Face it, Steve, you can’t get enough of this cock.”

“I can’t believe I actually agreed to sleep with you. Maybe I _can_ get drunk. That would explain why I suddenly lost my fucking mind and thought taking you home was a good idea.”

“Hey, whatever helps you to sleep at night. Do you want to get this started now, or should I give you another minute before I fuck you senseless again?”

 

* * *

 

 

He did end up give Lance a blowjob, much to the ire of his pride, but there was something satisfying about having him moaning out Steve’s name. And though he wasn’t proud of it, they did fuck again. Against the bedroom wall, skin pressed to skin, practically drooling as Lance gave it to him good. And on the bed, his head buried in pillows, biting down in vain to prevent his moans from waking the whole damn tower, while Lance fucked him hard and fast from behind. And again, Lance lying back smugly on the sheets, meeting Steve thrust for thrust as he rode him.

It was well past dawn when they finally collapsed down on the bed, exhausted. Even Lance couldn’t conjure the energy for his usual bravado, and the pair fell asleep, not even bothering to clean up or get under the covers.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance eventually left just before lunch, but not before putting his number in Steve’s phone with a wink, saying, “Next time you fancy a good fuck let me know, big boy.”

Some people would say it was immense self-control and his good heart that prevented him from throwing the shield at the prick, but really it was just because he was too tired. He didn’t even bothering seeing him out, taking pleasure at the thought of him trying to navigate his way out of the high-security tower at lunchtime on a weekday.

 

* * *

  

It was mid-afternoon by the time Steve surfaced, showering for far longer than normal just to feel remotely clean. His sheets were disgusting and, oh god, was that cum on the wall? Wiping it up as best as he could, he dropped the sheets into the laundry hamper and went to get himself a coffee. At least he’d had some sense last night to clean the table, but he still avoided it today, settling on the neutral sofa where he might not have vivid memories of having marathon sex.

It didn’t work, though, not when he could still smell Lance’s aftershave and the whole apartment had an odd musky undertone. Sighing, he dumped the remainder of his coffee and opened all the windows of the flat, shoving on a jumper before he made his way to the Avenger’s main floor.

When the elevator doors opened, he saw Natasha was sitting on the three-seater, a book perched on her lap and a mug warming her hands. He smiled at her as he made his way to the communal kitchen, but his steps faltered when he caught sight of Clint lounging in the arm chair, staring awkwardly at him for a moment before he resolutely avoided eye contact in favour of staring at the wall.

“Oh, uh, hi Clint,” he tried to break the awkwardness that had settled over them, “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He grunted, checking out his nails now and looking more than a little traumatised.

Steve was more concerned by the shark-eating grin that Natasha was sending his way, “Oh yes, we got back yesterday, thought we would have a little party at Clint’s, though it just ended up being late night pizza for the two of us.”

Steve was so fucked. “That’s... great, I hope the mission went well.” He tried.

“Just peachy. Tell me, Steve, how was your evening? And night? And morning?” she pointedly closed her book and placed it on the coffee table.

“Oh god.” he could feel the blush spreading across his chest, “This is... oh my god.”

“Hmm, yes, you did seem to say a lot of that last night. I’m sure _Lance_ was wonderful company.”

“Was I that loud?” he squeaked out.

Natasha smirked at him, “We ended up heading to my floor. It didn’t really help.”

“Oh _god._ ” He scrubbed a hand over his face, “You think Bruce...?”

“Yup.”

“And... Tony?”

“Not sure on that one. I haven’t seen him all day, which could mean anything really. Either he fell asleep in his lab again, is out with Pepper or Rhodes, or he’s just been traumatised by hearing his childhood hero getting fucked six ways from Sunday.”

“Natasha!” he chided.

“Oh no, you don’t get to act all righteous when we had to listen to you taking dick all night.” Clint finally spoke up.

“I... _god,_ I am so sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

Natasha tilted her head at him, “Not happen again because you don’t want to see him or...?”

Too hell with it. They’d already heard him last night, so there was no point in being timid now, “No, well- don’t get me wrong, he’s a complete asshole. But _Christ_ , he was good.”

Clint snorted, “Yeah, we kinda gathered that, thanks.”

“What? So, you’re going to use him as a booty call? Didn’t think you had it in you, Steve.”

Clint opened his mouth to speak but Natasha shot him a glare, “Don’t you even think about it.”

“A booty call?” Steve asked wearily, pouring himself a coffee and settling on the sofa next to Natasha.

“Sex on speed-dial. No strings attached, pure emotionless sex just a phone call away.” She explained, “If you don’t take it, I just might. Is he into women too?”

“Nat, don’t even go there.”

“You can’t get jealous over a booty call! Emotionless. No feelings involved. Jealously is one too many emotions.”

“It’s not that. I’m afraid you’d kill him within five minutes of meeting him.” He groaned, “Hell, he made me come six times and I still nearly threw my shield at him when he opened his mouth this morning.”

“I really did not need to have confirmation of that number.” Clint grumbled, sinking further into his chair, and covering his face.

It was at that moment that the elevator door opened again, Tony stepping out into the room with his usual sure-footedness. When he looked up from the phone in his hand, his eyes locked on Steve and he stopped short of his intended destination. He blinked one, twice, three times, before turning around and heading straight back out of the room without a word.

“Yeah, Tony definitely heard.” Natasha said with far too much glee, “At least he’ll stop teasing you about being a virgin now.”

Steve just grumbled into his coffee mug.

 

* * *

  

He didn’t go to the bar again after that, the appeal of it withered somehow now that he had spent the night with Lance. He had stared at the number saved in his phone, the contact saved as ‘God of Fucking’ followed by an eggplant emoji. He changed the name to simply ‘Lance’, but he kept the emoji.

 

* * *

 

 

There was an awkward few weeks around the tower where Tony would refuse to look at him and Bruce would try his best to be normal but only managed to be a stuttering mess. Clint’s grumpiness was mostly for show, and he took to teasing Steve along with Natasha.

But life continued on, and soon there was another mission that required their attention, a small resurgence of Chitauri, this time over in Miami. Their mutual embarrassment was set aside, and the team easily took their enemy down, with a little help from Thor to destroy the makeshift command centre, thankfully without the threat of a nuclear bomb.

Afterwards, when they slumped back onto the sofas in the newly-named Avengers Tower, still in their dirtied uniforms, they ate shawarma like they had in that very first month. He stayed rather quiet, happy enough to listen to the joking of his friends and feeling like maybe not everything was lost. Sure, they weren’t as cohesive as the Howling Commandos used to be, but he’d shared the same battles with them, knew the people behind the masks, and it was close, close to how things used to be.

Nat must have noticed his reticence, for she turned to him with a small smile, “You alright, Steve? You took quite a beating back there.”

“Well, we’re all intimately aware he’s used to taking a bit of a pounding.” Tony said, jokingly, a slight waver in his voice the only indication that he was uncomfortable, unsure of what the reaction would be.

All eyes in the room focused on Tony, but he didn’t blush or back down, just looked at them almost disinterestedly. His eyes flicked back to glance at Steve, who was practically gaping at him with a flush high on his cheeks. The brief silence was broken by Clint’s unattractive snort, and soon the whole room was laughing, even a mortified Steve.

 

* * *

 

 

He called Lance almost a month after their first night together.

What little he had was packed and ready to go, his sketchbook and art supplies, his new clothes and his suit, his shield resting atop the small pile. Tony had generously let the Avengers stay in the tower for as long as they liked, but since the Earth was very rarely in peril Steve joined SHIELD to pass the time until they were needed again.

It hurt too much, being in Brooklyn, in New York at all when he was trying to move on and could only think about the time Bucky saved him from a back-alley bully, or when he had gone on a disastrous double date at the place which was now a department store. DC seemed like good neutral ground, different enough that the memories stayed at bay, but familiar in that big city way that made him feel at home. Natasha had decided to move too, though he suspected that it was just as much to keep an eye on him as it was to help with SHIELD.

In the morning he would be in a new city, moving on with his life, still a soldier but one of the 21st century. But tonight... tonight he could be selfish, he supposed. Have one last morsel of the past, have that one moment where he could close his eyes and imagine body pressed against him was the one he’d always wanted, the fleeting moment in an otherwise unfamiliar encounter.

The thumbed out the text and sent it before he had the chance to reconsider.

_You busy?_

To his surprise, the reply came barely a minute later.

**_When it comes to your ass, I’m free as a bird_ **

**_That is what you want, right?_ **

_Yes._

**_Your place or mine?_ **

_What’s your address?_

They fucked most of the night, and Steve was bleary-eyed when he stumbled back to the tower with just enough time to collect his things before he was due to leave. Natasha looked him over once, a smirk etched upon her face, which he ignored in favour of napping on the jet.

 

* * *

 

 

It became a habit, one he was pretty sure Natasha knew about. Every so often he would find himself back in New York, and every time, no matter how short the visit, he would find himself in Lance’s bed. Sometimes he didn’t even bother staying at the Tower at all.

They had unspoken rules. They kissed beforehand, always deep and filthy, sometimes during, but never after; there were no soft words or gentle post-coital touching. Just each man using the other as a means to an end.

And, oddly enough, it helped him live more in the future. He thought of Bucky often, of course he did, but he was no longer seeing Lance as his replacement. Sex with Bucky would have been intimate, soft, holding each other close and whispering endearments. The after would have been just as good as the sex itself, perhaps even more so, the closeness, the warm skin of the man he loved pressed against him. With every pounding thrust, every lewd comment in his ear, every forceful hand in his hair, he thought only of Lance, only of the pleasure he felt right in that moment.

It was never discussed, but Steve never topped. Steve suspected that he wouldn’t be able to separate the image of the man below him from Bucky, wouldn’t be able to keep his emotions in check, so he never brought it up. It wasn’t like either man was complaining about the arrangement, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

And then Bucky Barnes came back from the dead.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god, it's been a long time. 
> 
> This has significantly more plot than the last chapter, covering all of Winter Solider, AOU, and half of Civil war, though there are several canon divergences in the latter. And it has more Stucky (though that isn't hard since Bucky wasn't even in the last chapter, oops)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who had waited so patiently for this, and for all the comments and kudos, I love you guys!  
> Hope you enjoy <3

 

It was only three days after he faced Bucky on the helicarrier that he sought out Lance. There was still clean up do to in the wake of fall of SHIELD, still the hounding of the press, but somehow Steve managed to find time to head to New York, though he suspected that Nick allowed him only because he thought he was going to see Tony, and not have an ill-advised booty call with a man who was the spitting image of his friend that had come back from the dead.

He didn’t really know why he needed to see Lance so bad now that he knew Bucky was alive, wasn’t sure why it didn’t stop the arrangement they had, why he pushed the guilt he carried aside and instead focused on the pleasure he would be feeling once he got to Lance’s place. He knew that seeing Lance’s face would bring him pain, his chest seizing with the knowledge that the athlete looked more like the Bucky he knew than the one that had beat him half to death. But in a way it made it more essential to see him, to remind himself of who Bucky really was, beneath all the HYDRA programming.

If Lance was surprised or even knew that he went out of his way to see him, he didn’t comment on it, choosing instead to push Steve down onto the couch and strip off his shirt. He paused only briefly to take in the bruises that hadn’t quite healed, before he dived back into a filthy kiss, rutting against the warm body below him.

Everything was rough and harsh in the way it always was, but it felt different, wrong. He’d always been able to separate Bucky from Lance with each careless shove and selfish thrust, but now memories of his friend’s gentleness faded away, replaced by the sting of the barrage of punches that he’d thrown down at him. The bruises Lance left him with merged in his own mind with the bruises Bucky had given him. He didn’t stop him though, just let Lance roughly take him on the couch, his own breathless grunts loud in the room with every harsh thrust. He was lost to pleasure when he looked up with bleary eyes to the man hovering over him, features hazy enough that he could just imagine those eyes were blue, that the fringe dislodged from his quiff was joined by long dark locks that framed that familiar face. He let himself, just for a moment, imagine that the look of pleasure on Lance’s face was that same look of realisation that Bucky had given him, and that was all it took for him to come hard, each sharp jab of Lance’s hips pressing on his bruises and making him shake with the force of his orgasm.

Guilt crept in, threatening to overwhelm him even as Lance was still chasing his orgasm. This was worse than thinking of Bucky back in Brooklyn, this was thinking about his friend who had been through hell, fetishizing the violent man it had made him into. He felt nauseous, disgusted with himself. He barely even noticed that Lance had come, vaguely aware of the panting against his neck and the weight against his chest.

“Fucked you speechless, huh?”

For once Steve was glad to hear his voice, the arrogant words grounding him so much so that he couldn’t bring himself to keep up their usual repertoire, “Something like that.”

Lance snorted, “Wow, not even bothering to deny it. Steve, you’re off your game today.”

“Get the fuck off me,” he said, pushing him off and into the crook of the sofa cushions, “I’m not sleeping on the couch when there’s a perfectly good bed right there.”

“Whatever,” he settled flat onto his back, splayed out enticingly, “Don’t expect me to join you, I happen to like my sofa.”

“Well some of us spent the weekend getting beaten up, so sorry if I want some comfort and not be squished on something less comfortable than an army bunk,”

Lance peeked an eye open, “Aw, that why you came over? My cock a comfort to you?”

“An orgasm is a comfort to me,” he corrected with a scowl, “You’re just a _tool_ towards that goal.”

Despite his earlier protestations, Lance did join him in bed a few hours later, if only with the goal to get laid again. They were both a little sleep rumpled, and it started slower than their usual frenzied fucking, but Steve found that he liked the change of pace.

When Lance started to steer things towards their norm, Steve pulled back and stared up at him, face flushed, “Can we keep it a bit slow?” he said awkwardly, quickly tacking on an excuse, “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and earlier didn’t exactly help.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining then,” Lance smirked, but he complied, touches more careful.

He guided Steve’s legs up and open, encouraging them to wrap around his waist as he pushed in. Instead of a grip on his hips, or a hand tugging in his hair, he planted his hands on the mattress either side of Steve’s head, dropping quickly to his elbows to get a better angle. It was more a roll of the hips than a thrust, the sound of slapping skin eerily absent and the slow drag of his cock against his prostate had Steve clutching at Lance’s back, eyes screwed shut. Occasionally Lance would switch to deep, hard thrusts, pulling all the way out and slamming himself back in, holding himself there and watching Steve practically writhe on his dick. Steve’s moans were too hot for Lance to stifle by plunging into that sinful mouth, so he dropped his lips to the flushed skin of his neck, nipping and biting the flesh there as Steve clawed at his back.

Steve was in ecstasy. They’d never fucked like this before, and Steve thought he must have been crazy to have denied himself _this_. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this good, and he could barely form coherent thought, but anything he did think was straying into dangerous territory. The name Lance fell from his vernacular, and Steve couldn’t help but think that this is what it would be like with Bucky, if he’d taken the chance back when they lived together. His orgasm was spectacular, and he almost wanted to laugh with how good it felt, “Oh! Oh Buck- hnnng!”

His words were slurred and almost indecipherable, and he didn’t realise that he’d come with Bucky’s name on the tip of his tongue. Lance didn’t seem to notice either, and was just excited by his enthusiasm, or perhaps the pleasure that came with changing things up, grunting into Steve’s neck as his hips stuttered and he filled him with his come.

They stayed there for a few minutes, as if frozen in time, before Lance huffed out a breath and rolled off him, throwing an arm over his eyes as he tried to get his breath back. Steve’s legs lay where they had been dropped, spread open and boneless, and he only had the energy to turn his head to the side and stare at the man next to him. He felt a surge of affection well up in his chest at the sight, not even sure if it was because it was how much he looked like Bucky or if it was actually Lance he was feeling this for.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the mess in DC was dealt with, Steve found that there was no reason for him to stay. Any escape from his memories he hoped to get had been dashed as soon as Bucky had shown himself in the city, and he knew that it would be easier to try and find him with Tony’s help in New York.

It also helped that living back in Brooklyn meant he saw Lance more often.

It was still rough, detached, most of the time, but every now and then they would find an excuse to go slow, to have Steve’s toes curling and Lance practically shaking with self-restraint. Objectively he knew that any affection he felt for Lance was misplaced from his feelings for Bucky, but when he was hazy with orgasm it was hard for him to separate it, hard not to look at him and have his heart race.

It only made him more desperate to find the real Bucky, Tony agreeing to help with the cause. The Winter Soldier was careful though, and there’d barely been a whisper of his whereabouts since the triskelion. He could be anywhere in the world, a master assassin who was impossible to find.

He grew more and more frustrated, and more and more obsessive, almost every waking thought involving Bucky in some way. His only relief was with Lance, and even then, it crept in when he let his mind switch off.

Then, one day, they got a lead. An apparent HYDRA base in Switzerland destroyed with no explanation, and no survivors. Most of the operatives had been shot, but one, a particularly amoral scientist they had recruited, had been strangled, and the pattern of bruising on her neck from the press of plated metal was more than familiar to him.

They’d flown over in Tony’s private jet, Steve twitching in his seat with anticipation and nervousness. But of course the Winter Soldier was infallible, was like catching smoke with your bare hands, and there was no sign of him, not a single sighting of someone even vaguely matching his description in the three weeks they stayed there.

Frustrated and wound up, as soon as they had returned to New York Steve had called Lance and within hours they were wrapped up in each other, Lance thrusting deep and slow into him as he was pushed face forward against the headboard, knees aching. Every part of them was touching, the skin-against-skin scorched across his back, the tickle of breath against his neck hot and wet and perfect. Lance had been in training earlier in the day and hadn’t bothered with his usual cologne, so all Steve could smell was the tang of sweat, making their fuck feel primal even with the sedentary pace. 

Bucky had always come home from the docks with a similar aroma, something manly and rugged that had set his senses ablaze and more often that not had him jerking off in the dead of night. When the sharp aftershave was present on his skin he knew that his friend was going to be spending the night with a dame, when he was soft and sweet smelling of their borax soap he knew the Bucky would be at work for the next eight hours or so, when he stumbled home reeking of alcohol he knew that he would just be watching him collapse into bed with a rattling snore. But when the light savour of sweat hit his nose, he knew that the evening was just for them, for him to sit sketching close while Bucky read one of his beloved sci-fi novels.

It only made the thoughts he had with their almost affectionate sex more confusing, making him thinking even less about Lance and more about Bucky shoving into him, cock perfectly hitting all the right places inside him. Senses overwhelmed, he shuddered as he came, panting out clear and loud, “Oh, Bucky! Oh, fuck! Yes, Buck!”

Lance’s thrusts slowed to a stop, and instead of finishing inside like he usually did, Steve felt him pull out and jerk off, spilling onto his back soon after.

It took Steve a minute to realise what he’d said, who’s name he’d cried out, and he felt mortification and guilt ripple through him.

“Never been called that nickname before,” Lance said through laboured breaths, still perched behind him.

Steve pushed him backwards, shuffling off the bed and heading towards the shower, “Fuck off.”

“Y’know, I should be the one that’s offended,” he smirked, following Steve even after he’d been on the business end of a particularly scathing glare, “So, Bucky, huh?”

“I told you to fuck off!” Steve practically yelled.

“Touchy tonight, aren’t we?”

“Lance, I’m serious, leave it alone.”

Lance pushed himself off the doorframe, looking at Steve pointedly, “You really thought I didn’t know, Steve? We all had to learn about you and the Howlies in school, you think I never got told how much I look like good old Cap’s dead best friend?”

Steve whirled around and pinned Lance against the door, fingers digging into his shoulders, and practically growling at him, “You shut your god damn mouth!”

“What, you don’t want a bit of roleplay? Live out your dirty little fantasies?” Lance never had learned to still his tongue.

Steve pushed him back into the door harder, the wood splintering at the hinges, but Lance didn’t even seem phased, simply letting out a small grunt at the motion. Steve took a deep breath, closing his eyes to block out the smug grin in front of him in an effort not to punch the man. His grip tightened, and he knew that Lance would bruise there.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, not even looking at Lance as he stormed out of the room, grabbing his clothes as he went. Thankfully the gymnast didn’t comment further and stayed out of his way in the bathroom. Steve was still filthy, covered in their respective messes, but he didn’t care as he tugged on his hoodie and a pair of Lance’s sweatpants, slamming the front door behind him.

It was early evening, and the streets were busy, but he ignored everyone, fast pace giving people barely enough time to recognise him before he was gone. He was sure there would be pictures in some magazine tomorrow of his dishevelled hair, speculation about the mark on his jaw that was already fading; he was lucky that the come hadn’t obviously stained any of his clothes. Undoubtedly they would follow him even more closely to find some mystery lover, but lucky for him he had no plans to see Lance fucking Tucker ever again.

 

* * *

 

 

True to his own silent promise, he didn’t see Lance again, even if his thoughts sometimes strayed to him on lonely nights. He’d tried to start something with Sharon, enjoying a few nights together, but the guilt felt even worse when she looked at him with something too close to love and he barely felt more than passing affection for her. He shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she was related to Peggy, he apparently was subconsciously drawn to those that would just remind him of the past.

But suddenly there was no time to think about romances, past or present, because Tony and Bruce’s failsafe plan had backfired and a cybernetic being with more knowledge than JARVIS was terrorising the Earth, aided by two HYDRA bioweapon twins.

 The Avengers tower was ransacked but was still standing when they finally made it home after Sokovia, with their new recruits in tow. Pietro had spent most of the journey unconscious, wounds deep and more life-threatening than any of them would have liked, but Wanda and Tony had worked together to stabilise him, and it looked like he would make a full recovery.

He was doing well, enjoying Thor’s enthusiastic company, and bonding with Wanda over old movies that she happened to love. He had barely even thought of Bucky, only allowing himself to in the dead of night or when Tony would give him another hopeless update. But he felt better than he had in months.

Of course it would all be shattered.

It was just a routine mission, some HYDRA insurgents holding up medical research centre in Lagos, and it was perfect for Wanda to practice and for Sam to brush up on his skills as an Avenger. It went as well as it could, the fight spilling out into the streets, but no-one was hurt. It was only when Steve caught up to the last insurgent that he was blindsided, the sight of Brock Rumlow startling him. And when Rumlow started speaking it only got worse.

“You know he knew you? Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky.”

“What the hell did you say?” he said sharply, towering over him with his shirt clenched in his fist.

“He remembered you. I was there,” he sneered, even as Steve hoisted him up further, “He got all weepy about it. Well, until they put his brain back in the blender.”

Steve couldn’t speak, white hot with rage and sorrow and the guilt surrounding him once more.

Seeing that he had hit a nerve, Brock continued, his voice thick with mocking sympathy, “He wanted you to know something. He said to me, ‘ _Please_ tell Rogers... when you gotta go, you gotta go’.”

It took Steve longer than it should have to take in the smirk, and it was only when Brock hissed out, “And you’re coming with me,” that he remembered where they were, realised why he had been stalling him for so long.

He didn’t have time to react, didn’t even have the time to accept his probable death before Rumlow had pushed the detonator.

It was sheer luck that Wanda had appeared when she did, containing the blast with her magic and forcing Brock and the explosion into the sky, high and far enough away that the only evidence was a wave of warm air rippling over them.

Steve sank to his knees, the strain of the fight exhausting him along with the stark reminder of what Bucky had faced all these years. Even if Brock was lying, the thought that Bucky may have remembered him before, may have wept for what he had become only to be tortured back into submission, had bile rising in his throat. His oldest and dearest friend, the kindest and most loving man he knew, out there somewhere with scrambled memories but self-aware enough to know how he’d changed, what he’d done.

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere along the line thoughts of Bucky had been intrinsically linked with thoughts of Lance. When Steve found himself walking the streets of Brooklyn, past the place they used to live, past the store that used to be the butchers, past the park that was once the local cinema, he thought of Bucky and his smile, about how they would walk together and Buck would get so enthusiastic about the newest flick they were showing that he’d fling an arm around Steve’s shoulders and jostle him close. But often the image of the smile was not quite right, not the same as he used to know, but more arrogant, more smug, and without his volition the eyes he remembered looking into his own sparking with mirth were brown instead of the blue he knew they should be.

It wasn’t long before he stopped walking the old paths but manoeuvred instead through the light crowds and soon found himself in front of the apartment block he hadn’t seen since he stormed out all those months ago.

Thankfully the building had a foyer below that only needed a code to get in, a number that Lance had given him after their fourth hook-up. The intercoms for each flat were on a gold coloured plate on the far wall, just out of view from the door, and his finger hovered over the button to Lance’s apartment, not quite daring to touch.

It was only when another resident stepped out of the elevator and gave him a judgemental, sidelong glance before scurrying out of the complex that he stopped his dithering, squaring his shoulders and pushed the button.

The ringing was loud in the empty foyer, and Steve cringed at the sound.

 _“Yes?”_ came the tinny voice from the small speaker, tone dripping impatience, and it almost made Steve smile to hear it.

“Can I come up?”

There was a pause, _“Steve?”_

“Yes.”

Another pause, _“You know where to go.”_

Steve had planned to apologise for being too heavy-handed with him during their fight, and even more so for not at least offering to pay for the broken bathroom door. He’d even silently practiced the words in the elevator up to his floor, trying to decide on the adequate thing to say to a man he shouldn’t really have any emotional connection to.

But when Lance had opened the door to greet him, the words failed him. There was an awkward moment where Lance and Steve stood face to face in the entrance way, not really looking at each other and not moving any closer or further away. It promised to go on indefinitely until Lance coughed, tilting his chin up to give Steve a challenging look, “Are we going to fuck or not?”

And as much as Steve wanted to talk, he found that the invitation was too tempting after so being practically celibate for so long to stop himself from surging forward and capturing him in a filthy kiss that promised a sleepless night.

They never did get around to talking that night, or the next night, or even the third night that he stayed. But Lance didn’t mention Bucky again, didn’t even hint about the cause of their fight, just teased him in other ways before fucking him into the mattress once more. The slow sex stopped; as good as it had felt for them, they both silently acknowledged that it complicated things too much, it let Steve think too much, and it clearly showed. It was odd to have Lance Tucker actually be mature and understanding, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been too peaceful for too long, and of course everything had to happen at once.

Tony had finally found a lead on Bucky, a blurry image from an embassy’s camera in Bucharest that FRIDAY had flagged as a probable match. As soon as Steve saw the image he knew it was him, even with the new way he held himself. They hoped that Bucky had been staying in Bucharest rather than destroying a HYDRA base there as was his usual pattern.

And for once their hopes had been right, Tony managing to track who they were mostly sure was Bucky back to a shady apartment in the slums of the city, if only by hoping no-one else was wearing quite the same black baseball cap and red shirt combo on that particular day.

They were on their way, almost in Romanian airspace when the call came through, forcing them to divert to the nearest suitable airport, all planes in the area being grounded. It didn’t take long for Tony to find out why, stilling in front of the screen and avoiding looking at Steve.

“What? What is it?”

“Someone just bombed the UN conference in Vienna.”

“HYDRA?” Steve asked, “We should go over there, see if there’s anything we can do.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Tony said carefully.

“What? Why?”

Tony didn’t reply, just spun the monitor around to show Steve the image on screen, a black-and-white still of a man with scraggly brown hair, his mouth covered by a black bandana, but familiar nose perfectly in profile. He wasn’t immediately identifiable, something off about him, but Steve could tell who he was trying to resemble.

“No... he wouldn’t do that, Tony, not anymore,” Steve said firmly.

“Steve. I get he used to be your friend, but he’s been with HYDRA for years-”

“But he knew me! He saved my life!” he insisted, “And you know as well as I do that he’s been destroying HYDRA bases, not working with them. Why would he do this now?”

“Maybe they got to him again?” Tony said weakly.

“Tony, even if that were true, you really think he would let himself be caught on CCTV in the middle of a mission like this? He’s practically looking into the camera for fuck’s sake!”

“Well, we found him in Romania.”

“After _months_ , and only because you had FRIDAY monitoring every camera in Europe for his face. And the only glimpse of his face was in one frame in the background half out of shot.”

Tony sighed and rubbed at his eyes, “Ok, say you’re right; then, what, someone’s framing him? But why?”

“To draw him out of hiding maybe? I’d bet my shield that HYDRA has been as desperate to get their _asset_ ,” he practically spat the word, “back as we are to get Bucky.”

“I hate that this actually makes sense,” he grumbled, “Alright, I’m going to trust you on this. I’ll head to Vienna, try to see what I can find out, maybe call Natasha in if I can persuade them to authorise my plane. You head to Bucharest and find Barnes. And be careful. We don’t want another lover’s showdown between you two.”

It was only a few hours drive from Sibiu Airport, even faster thanks to the bike Tony had managed to have waiting for him there. The more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense that Bucky could have been responsible. They had evidence of Bucky being in Romania as late as last night, and if Steve did find him in the apartment there, there was no way that he’d have been able to get from Vienna so quickly.

The apartment was run down, to say the least, bed merely a mattress on the floor, windows covered over with newspaper, wooden palette against one of the walls, but there was a little kitchenette that actually looked clean, aside from a few used dishes in the sink. Lived in.

There were snacks piled on top of the fridge, and Steve’s heart tugged; Bucky always did have a sweet tooth. He pushed them aside, however, when he noticed the book resting below them, a plain black diary with little coloured post-it notes sticking out of the pages. Steve idly wondered where he’d got them, smiling fondly at the thought of Bucky navigating his way through a stationary store, trying to decide which colour notebook to get.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he carefully opened the book to the first page, paragraphs of Bucky’s small and shaky handwriting filling up the space. He didn’t want to delve too deep, to read every thought, but he flicked through further, pages naturally lying open to where a thicker leaflet had been placed inside. He swallowed at the image, a picture of Captain America staring up at him.

There was a lump in his throat, and just as he was about to read the words beneath, praying that Bucky really did remember him, he heard a deliberate shuffle from behind him, and he froze.

Turning slowly, he saw him.

He’d been so full of adrenaline and worry that he hadn’t registered that he would be facing his friend for the first time since the Triskelion, and he the moment he saw his face he was sure his heart had stopped. He looked better than he had back then, less crazed and more put together, but his hair was still long and unkempt, stubble dusting his cheeks. His eyes were what got to Steve the most, blue exactly like they should be, exactly like he remembered, guarded but Steve was sure he could see recognition in them.

Steve levelled his voice, trying not to let the emotion slip through, but it cracked midway through, “Do you know me?”

Bucky looked at him in silence for a moment, keeping his eyes locked onto his face before saying in that perfect low tone, “You’re Steve.” He looked away then, not able to keep eye contact, “I read about you in a museum.”

But Steve knew him, knew his tells even now, “You’re lying.”

He looked at Steve once more, an unwavering gaze, “I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t... I don’t do that anymore.”

“I know,” he said, taking a step forward, encouraged when Bucky didn’t move away. They weren’t close, they’d been closer when Bucky pulled him out of that river, but it was still thrilling, and Steve could swear he felt the warmth radiating of the man even with half a room between them, “But the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive.”

Bucky shifted then, tilting away from him, “That’s smart,” he said, and Steve could see in his eyes that he meant more than that, that he meant he deserved it, “Good strategy.”

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

They could hear the special forces men on the stairs, their too-loud footsteps on the roof. Bucky stepped over to the table by the door, shucking off his glove, revealing the glint of his metal arm as he got ready to face the music, “It always ends in a fight.”

“You pulled me from the river,” Steve tried desperately. If they left now, if Bucky agreed to go with him they might have a chance at doing this somewhat peacefully, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” but he could see in every line of his face that he knew perfectly well why.

“Yes you do.”

Neither could tear their eyes away, so many things unsaid communicated just through their gaze. Steve was sure they could have looked at each other forever, if the special forces hadn’t chosen then to breach the apartment.

They worked in an odd kind of sync, Bucky used to fighting alone for so long, but he still seemed to trust Steve to know what to do next, even if Steve was a bit slow on the uptake. But he was harsher, a lot harsher than he should be and Steve was worried that Bucky didn’t know his own strength.

“Buck, stop,” he grabbed his shoulder, stopping him before he could hurt the man he’d just smashed in the chest with his boot, “You’re gonna kill someone!”

He was unprepared for when he was slammed down to the ground, fist diving towards his face in a move so similar to when they faced each other back in DC that he flinched. But the fist was meant for the floorboards next to him, and he watched dazedly as Bucky pulled out a bag from beneath the splintered wood.

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” he shot Steve a betrayed look that he quickly schooled, before throwing his unearthed backpack onto the roof opposite.

Steve watched him shield himself from the gunfire suddenly unleashed from the doorway with his arm. So far Steve hadn’t done anything reprehensible, nothing that said he was fighting for one side or the other. But he knew who he would ally himself with every time, and so he pulled himself to his feet, hiding Bucky behind his shield before beating back two soldiers coming in through the window.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had been in jail before, if only the city one for a few hours at a time. Always for some bar fight that was cited as a breach of the peach, always looked at with amusement as the cops booked the barely five and a half foot asthmatic kid, and always bailed out by one thoroughly unamused James Buchanan Barnes.

This was not like any of those times. He wasn’t actually in a cell, for one, everyone was looking at him in either awe, confusion, or disappointment, and Bucky was locked up even worse than him. Though he supposed this was not dissimilar to a bar fight, if a bit more supercharged.

Tony had thankfully been there to charm some sense into them and not have Steve locked up proper, as well as given him some clothes that fit so he could change out of his Captain America suit. He’d even managed to get Sam into the building, despite the heavy lockdown that was still in place across most of Europe. He suspected Nat was here too, but she was probably already busy trying to flush out who was really behind the attacks.

Tony hadn’t been able to do much for Bucky, however, who’s hands had been manacled before he was shoved into some weird glass box as though he was Hannibal Lecter. Steve’s jaw clenched at his expression, the panic that would be concealed to anyone who hadn’t studied that face for years, thought about it in the dark night after night, seen it laugh and smile and cry and mourn.

Sam stood firm next to him as he watched the feed intently, the psychiatrist asking Bucky some standard questions, Bucky being as frosty as he could while still answering most of them. They hadn’t been at it long before the door to their secure room was opened, Sharon Carter walking towards them with a file. She looked up at Steve, giving him an awkward smile, before her eyes were drawn to the camera and she frowned.

“Who’s that?”

“Uh, Bucky, of course. The Winter Soldier?” Steve furrowed his brow, sure that Sharon had more than enough intel on him.

She shook her head, “No, not him. The other guy?”

“Are you feeling ok? That’s the psychiatrist they sent from the UN.”

Sharon shot him a panicked glance, pulling out her radio, “Steve, the doctor they send was found dead in his hotel an hour ago,” she practically ran out of the room hissing into the radio, but it was too late, the video feed along with the power shutting down around them.

Steve and Sam raced down to the holding area, following Sharon’s lead, but as they rounded the corner she was flung to the side by Bucky, now in full Winter Soldier mode.

 

* * *

 

 

They were lucky that half the Avengers were there to at least slow him, and even more so that Sam had been able to subdue the imposter psychiatrist before he could make his getaway. And it was quite frankly a miracle that the plunge into the river had been enough like Bucky’s cryostasis between missions that he’d basically shut down.

Steve had managed to drag him to some abandoned factory, reluctantly locking the metal arm in a heavy vice there and waiting for him to wake up. His phone had been ruined by the water and he had no idea what they would do to Bucky if he was found. No, the best bet right now would be to lay low, try to get in contact with Tony or Sam. That was if Bucky was actually himself again when he awoke.

It was dark out before he heard Bucky move, shifting about in half-sleep with a grumble like he used to on early mornings. He quickly stood, standing back but clearly in sight of the man so as not to startle him too much.

“Get the fuck off my arm, Steve,” he mumbled, tugging his arm with a scowl.

Steve huffed a watery laugh, remembering the familiar words from when they camped out close during the war, where Steve would always move around too much in his sleep and end up splayed across Bucky and half-trapping him there.

“Buck? That you?” he inched forward, fingers brushing lightly across the flesh arm, pushing into a more solid touch when Bucky didn’t react.

“Steve? What...?” he blinked his eyes open, “Where am I?”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Uh, I remember the fight at my apartment, and that weird cat guy who attacked us. And that glass case that-” his eyes shot up to Steve’s, “The man! The book! Steve, he had the book.”

“The doctor? What book?”

“I had a _manual_. HYDRA had a list of words for when I started to think for myself again. Just say the words and I’m right back to the solider. He- he must have been HYDRA.”

“Ok. Ok...” Steve said, thinking hard, “If I let your arm go you’re not going to attack me?”

Bucky scowled, “I’m perfect lucid now, punk.”

“Sorry, sorry, thought it would be best to check,” Steve said sheepishly, releasing him and hovering close. He helped Bucky to his feet, smiling at him encouragingly, but was not expecting when he was punched on the shoulder, light enough to not hurt him, but hard enough that he stumbled a little, “What the hell, Buck!”

“Idiot. You just taking my word for it that I’m safe? How have you even survived this long?”

“Jerk,” Steve grumbled, “I think I know you well enough to tell when you’re you. Besides, you were too chatty to be in killbot mode.”

Steve was sure that he heard Bucky called him an idiot again under his breath and muttering something about crashing his plane into the ocean but decided it best to let that conversation go for now. They could talk about his lack of self-preservation later, now though, they had to get somewhere safe.

“I need to speak to Tony,” he said, “We need to get you out of the country, preferably out of Europe.”

“How are we going to do that? Every person in Europe has seen my face by now. And you’re probably on the wanted list too.”

“Hopefully the civilian clothes will make me blend in a little more. All I need is a phone. Are you ok to wait here?”

“Seriously? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m not the one with a shoot to kill order on me,” Steve argued, “Look, it’s either we both wait it out here and hope they don’t think to search the abandoned factory that is a perfectly obvious hideout, or I leave for thirty minutes tops to contact Tony and we get you back to the US.”

Steve could tell that Bucky was not happy with the plan, but he knew that as soon as he was seen it would be like Romania all over again, “When did you become the sensible one?” he griped, “Fine. Fine. But if you really think that two-sizes too small wet ‘civilian’ t-shirt is going to help you blend in then you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

He looked down at his outfit with a frown, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Wrong with- Steve, it’s obscene. Are you hoping people will be so distracted by your chest that they’ll forget they’re supposed to arrest you?” Bucky tugged off his jacket, leaving only the red shirt beneath, “Put this on, it won’t help that much but it’s better than nothing.”

He had a point about distractions to be fair, since Steve found himself thoroughly distracted by the pull of the fabric across Bucky’s shoulders, the long sleeves only defining his biceps further. He hadn’t really had time to appreciate how big Bucky really was now, his body oozing power, and, wow, how had he not noticed those _thighs_ before? He was getting a little hot under the collar, and it took him a moment to realise that Bucky was saying his name, still holding out the jacket.

Steve coughed awkwardly, taking the clothing and quickly pulling it on to avoid Bucky’s eyes. And god, if he wasn’t fired up already at the worst possible time, the jacket smelled so _good_ , and really Steve needed to stop drooling over him right now. He coughed again, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Er, right. Well, I’ll be back soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tony had managed to sneak away from the carnage, heading over to the hotel where they’d found the body of the real psychiatrist. He wanted to see what was there with his own eyes, not trusting that HYDRA didn’t have its claws in the UN.

The room was cordoned off but had been abandoned for now once the fighting started.

“FRIDAY start video recording,” he said quietly, stepping across the threshold and grimacing at the odour.

He only peeked his head in the bathroom where the smell was strongest, gagging a little as he took in the covered body in the bathtub. Everything else seemed almost untouched though, discarded forensic camera on the benchtop and only one spot by the sink covered in fingerprinting dust.  

Stepping back into the bedroom, he clocked a large leather briefcase on the bed, the latches closed, and casting a glance over his shoulder, he flicked them and the case open.

Inside was a mask, a gross looking prosthetic thing that looked enough like Bucky for a blurry black-and-white camera to be fooled, and next to it a book with a red star emblem emblazoned on the front. There was a USB too, a tiny innocuous thing. Hesitating a moment, he snatched it up; he’d check out what was on it and have it returned before they knew it.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a good ten minute walk to the nearest set of houses, the warehouse in some long abandoned industrial estate. Thankfully the roads were clear of cars, the crisis of a dangerous fugitive no doubt keeping everyone inside. Occasionally a chopper could be heard overhead, and the rumble of what he was sure were armoured vehicles along the nearby main road, but thankfully none had ventured down this particular road yet.

The houses were pretty run down, and from the looks of it most of the residents were at work, driveways empty. It was easy enough for Steve to break into the backdoor of one; he tried to keep the damage to a minimum, but the wood had broken all around where the lock was, and the whole thing would have to be replaced. Hopefully he could get Tony to help him send some compensation their way.

Thankfully he knew Tony’s number off by heart, typing the number in on the landline in the hall, and after two rings the man picked up.

“Tony, it’s me,” he said, not waiting for a greeting. He tried his best to be as vague as possible, sure that this was being monitored by someone, “Can you track this phone?”

_“Yes.”_

“He’s back to normal. You’ll know where we are once you get to the area.”

_“Understood.”_

He didn’t wait for a goodbye, quickly hanging up before heading back up to the factory. He pulled the jacket tighter around himself and looked around one last time before slipping through the fence and over to the old workshop.

Word were on his lips, ready to try a clever little greeting like he used to back in Brooklyn, but as he stepped into the space he saw it was empty.

“Bucky?” he said in panic, “Buck?”

He was sure no-one had headed up this way, and Tony would have said if they already had him. But what if HYDRA had been waiting? What if they saw him leave and read out those words again? He sped up his search, frantically looking into every room and calling out his name as loud as he dared.

It wasn’t until he headed back into the main room that he saw it, a message carved into the wood of a workbench, rusty screwdriver discarded beside it.

_Safe. Sorry.  
BB_

He should have known not to leave him alone. He’d lost him again.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d already had to explain to Sam what happened on the way back to the UN, Tony having sent him in a car under the guise of helping out with the search, but it seemed that Tony wanted to hear it from the source, inviting him up to his hotel room with an oddly clipped tone shortly after he’d convinced the UN that he’d been knocked unconscious for the past few hours after the fight.

He was surprised to find Tony actually drinking, and the hard stuff by the looks of it. As far as he’d known his friend had long since cut out alcohol for the sake of his own health. He closed the door gently behind him, “You alright, Tony?”

He didn’t say anything, just pressed a button on the remote next to him, bringing the TV to life with a grainy video on screen, bottom corner flashing _16 DEC 1991_ and the general quality telling him it was CCTV footage. Steve had a feeling he knew what this was, and he sank heavily down onto the sofa across from Tony.

Tony’s face was impassive as the video played for Steve. There was a heavy silence once it was over.

“I knew HYDRA was involved.” Steve said, quietly, “I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected that... that they’d sent the Winter Solider to do it.”

“How long?” Tony hissed, fury evident behind his eyes.

“Since I found out about Zola and HYDRA in SHIELD.”

“All this time. You’ve known through everything, through Sokovia and through-” Tony had to stop himself, inhaling sharply, “And you had the fucking nerve to ask me to help you find him! To rescue him!”

Steve stayed silent.

“Why? Why did you keep it from me?”

“Because I was scared you’d try to stop him yourself. That if you knew what he’d done you’d try to kill him for it.”

“You’re right, I would have.” Tony said, not ashamed to admit it, “I would stop him because he’s a murderer and he’ll keep on murdering people if he isn’t stopped.”

“He was brainwashed. He was tortured and kept captive since 1945. It wasn’t his fault.” He struggled to keep his voice level, but he knew meeting anger with anger would only make the situation a hell of a lot worse, “He’s not like that anymore. I know what I saw on the helicarrier, and I know who saved me.”

“And how can I believe the man he is today isn’t still the man that killed my mom!”

“Because I know him. Because I’m asking you to trust me.”

“How can I? You’ve done nothing to make me think you’re trustworthy.” And that cut Steve more than anything because he still trusted Tony even after Ultron and everything they’d been through together.

“And you have?” he bit back, “You created an artificial intelligence that killed people and was hell bent on wiping out humanity,” A hurt look passed over Tony’s face, but he was quick to hide it. Steve continued on before he could speak though, “But I know you made it with the best intentions and so even though I don’t agree with everything you do, I trust you. I trust you because I know you and I want the same thing; to protect people, good people. And maybe Bucky isn’t innocent. But he sure as hell isn’t guilty. And if you think he deserves to be punished for what HYDRA did to him then you better punish Natasha as well. Or Clint for what he did when Loki was controlling him.”

Tony’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t reply immediately. He sat back onto the chair and stared into his scotch, refusing to even look in Steve’s general direction, “I won’t help you.” He said lowly, “If he sets foot in the same building as me again I’ll kill him.”

The unspoken ‘but I won’t stop you’ didn’t go unnoticed by Steve. It wasn’t perfect, but it was as much of an olive branch as Tony would extend. He really didn’t want to choose between Tony and Bucky, and they both knew it would always be Bucky that Steve chose.

“Thank you, Tony,” he said earnestly, “I mean it.”

Tony watched him leave, letting out a long sigh once he was sure he was gone. He was angry, and hurt, of course he was but... but as much as he hated it he understood. This wasn’t as clear cut as he wanted it to be, he wanted to see Barnes as nothing more than a cold-blooded killer, but he’d grown up with the same history lessons as everyone else, and more so with the way his dad would harp on and on about his old pals. And he’d seen what he’d been doing since he broke from HYDRA’s control, destroying the bases they’d missed, completing SHIELD’s unfinished mission. And he had seen the resolute faith the Steve had in him, Captain America, America’s golden boy, was willing to throw his entire reputation away, go against anyone and anything, even reason at times, to protect James Barnes.

There would be a trail eventually, with or without his presence, and with the evidence from Zemo’s hotel as well as the HYDRA files Natasha had procured, Barnes was surely going to get a pardon. If the tape was used in evidence though, that might make it less theoretical, make it less sympathetic, make him rot in a maximum security prison for the rest of his long life.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Destroy all traces of that video.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not even funny how much of this I've had written for months and just... never uploaded? I even have like 90% of the ending written out but as usual it's the filler in between that is choking me half the time 
> 
> I'm thinking maybe 5 chapters overall, of about 5,000 words each (the ending is already more oops)
> 
> But, expect erratic uploads as usual, I have three other WIP fics and then actual uni work to do too so I'm a bit swamped atm


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly filler, with some plot progression but again, um, bit less Stucky than I intended it to have by now, oops! And it ends a little abruptly but I'd rather update than try and shove in another however many chapters and have it wait any longer.
> 
> It will get there. Eventually. 
> 
> Take note of the new tags!

Romania hadn’t been the warmest place he’d ever been, but it wasn’t ever truly cold. Not like the nights their apartment was so cold they could see their breaths, and he’d had to take a shivering Steve into his arms, forfeiting as many blankets as he could in order to keep his friend warm, keep him alive. Not like the icy wind swirling past him as he watched Steve’s pained face grow further away, before he slammed into the snow bank below, everything spiking with cold, giving way to numbness and blackness. Not like the cryochamber, where no drugs were enough to put him under, so he felt every last second of the freeze, the dropping of his body’s core temperature, their make-shift serum surely the only thing keeping him alive.

And not like the facility in Siberia now, long void of humanity, and now just metal windbreak, the inside feeling even colder somehow.

He walked past the dozen or so cryochambers, men and women he remembered hazily, some prisoners of war like him, some volunteers, and some just plucked from the streets with no family to miss them.

Most of them had never seen active duty, the knock-off serums they produced never quite giving them the results they wanted. Aggression was the most common trait, pure primal rage, but with no mind to follow orders, no matter how much conditioning they were put there. He’d watched from behind the bars he’d locked him and his handler in as each batch tore each other apart, the victor then incapacitated with a concoction of drugs so strong they would have taken down Captain America himself.

Defective, is what they had called them. Still, HYDRA keep them on ice, never knowing when they might be of use.

There was one though, he remembers, a half-starved boy they’d found wandering too close to a facility in Latvia, who seemed promising at first, following basic orders of walking in this direction or that, of picking up the correct item from a table, parroting out ‘Hail HYRDA’ on command. But as soon as they had showed him a gun, had The Asset demonstrate hitting a target (and even now Bucky wasn’t sure that the target hadn’t been more than a dummy, has memories of something writing and moving that he can’t let himself think about for too long), the boy seem to shrink in on himself, becoming catatonic. He hadn’t responded to anything more than reflexive convulsions when they’d used the electric baton on him after that. Bucky never knew what they did with him, his bare bloody heels dragging across the floor the last thing he saw of him.

His plan had been to destroy this place, destroy everyone and everything inside it. But as he scanned the faces around him, he had to wonder. What if they could be saved? What if they are buried inside their own minds like he was for so long?

Setting his gun aside, he sat in front of one chamber, a young woman suspended inside. He didn’t remember her, but she looked like she could have qualified for the Red Room programme in her youth. The fact that she was here instead meant that she was probably another that had been grabbed by HYDRA when she was least expecting it. He wondered when she had lived, if she was almost as old as him or if she was a newer recruit. He supposed it didn’t really matter, her life as she knew it had been over the minutes HYDRA had looked at her.

He sat for a long time, just thinking. It was too risky to leave them here without surveillance, and even then, HYDRA had wormed its way into SHIELD itself, so who could they trust? That was without even considering the technology lying dormant here, the countless files detailing their experiments and formulas.

He was roused from his thoughts by a noise behind him, a movement in the shadows. Anyone else would have missed it, but he locked onto the figure in the darkness, skirting around the edge of the room. He waited until they were close to him, probably hoping to get a sneak attack in, before he struck.

Bucky whipped around, grabbing the person by the neck and pining them against the wall.

“Soldier,” the man said calmly, as Bucky’s hand tightened as he recognised him from the fight in Bucharest.

“You followed me. Why? Who are you?” he growled.

“My name is T’Challa, King of Wakanda. My father was killed when the UN was bombed.”

Bucky loosened his grip, unsurprised but mostly satisfied that this man wasn’t with HYDRA, if only because he hadn’t attempted to ‘reactivate’ The Asset yet, “And you’re here for revenge.”

“I was. Before your name was cleared,” T’Challa explained, “And for that I must apologise. To you and your friend.”

“Cleared?”

“Ah, I suspected you hadn’t heard,” he smiled, “The events were orchestrated by a man named Zemo, the man who claimed to be your psychiatrist. They found various paraphernalia in his hotel room that exonerated you.”

“And just like that I’m not a wanted man?”

“Not exactly. You are still wanted as an international assassin, at least until Stark and Captain Rogers can prove that the circumstances around your behaviour was the result of HYRDA conditioning.”

“So, what do you want then?” Bucky asked, finally dropping his hand, but picking up his gun to keep that trained on him just in case, “If you no longer want revenge?”

“I told you, to apologise,” the king paced around the room, taking in the chambers lining the walls, “Wakanda has long avoided getting involved with the politics of the rest of the world. It was the first time in ten years we’ve attended a UN conference, and only to discuss compensation regarding the loss of lives in Sokovia. And as a nation we are not afraid to give sanctuary to those we believe are innocent.”

Bucky practically gaped at him, “You want to give me sanctuary? After you saw what I did?”

“Yes, that and... a cure, if you will.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“In Zemo’s room they found a book, and inside it contains words that are designed to reset your mind,” T’Challa said, looking at him once more, “To bring forth the Winter Solider.”

Bucky felt a chill of fear run through him at the words, “If you want to use me as some kind of weapon I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I wish to help you remove these words. Our nation is extraordinarily advanced, we have some of the greatest scientific minds in the world working for us. My own sister is gifted in neuroscience and neurotechnology. We have come across people in your condition before, if less prolonged, and each one has been freed from the confines of their mind. Several of them still live in Wakanda, if you want to talk to them.”

“And you would just do this for me? For what? Some apology you think you need to give me? I call bullshit.”

“What’s the matter? You don’t think you deserve to be saved?” he frowned at him, “Your friend seems to think the opposite. Despite our disagreement in Bucharest, I respect Captain Rogers immensely, and more so for seeing how strongly he will fight for what he thinks is right. It’s a very Wakandan trait.”

“How can I trust you? How do I know that outside that door isn’t as SWAT team ready to take me out?”

T’Challa looked amused, “Do you not remember our fight? I held my own against the both you and Rogers; if I wanted you dead, you would be already.”

“Ok, I go with you, what then? What happens to this place? These people.”

“I think it best this facility is destroyed. I know enough about HYDRA to know they are a parasite. As for the people, I assume they have a similar experience to you?”

“Yes. But none of them were responsive to commands or triggers. They were indiscriminately homicidal.”

“Hmm, interesting. That will make rehabilitation difficult, but Shuri has never found a problem she can’t solve. Very well. We’ll have to send specialised transport to collect them but consider them granted the same sanctuary as you.”

Bucky wasn’t one hundred percent convinced, but if this was a trap he would have walked into it whenever he exited anyway. At least now he could keep his guard up and be ready, as long as they didn’t use his trigger words.

Somewhat reluctantly he nodded to T’Challa, lowering his gun, “I have one condition.”

“Name it, and I will try to accommodate.”

“Don’t tell Steve. I doubt you’d tell anyone anyway if you really are being sincere, but don’t tell him especially. Not until I’m fully myself again.”

“If that is what you wish, it is done,” T’Challa agreed, before gesturing to the entrance and walking ahead, back tuned towards him in a show of trust.

Bucky braced himself and followed the king out into the snow.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been months since Steve last saw him, months since Bucky left him in that warehouse with nothing more than a few parting words carved onto some rotting wood. He had stayed in Europe for weeks searching, Sam dutifully by his side, but there was nothing, truly not even a trace of Bucky Barnes anywhere.

He’d fastidiously rejected Sam’s careful suggestions to return home, sure that this next lead would be the one, but after what must have been their fifteenth dead-end he’d reluctantly conceded. Things were still frosty with Tony, but he’d graciously sent a jet to pick him up when Sam had called him, and Steve’s guilt over everything grew tenfold in the face of Tony’s kindness.

He had stepped into his lonely brownstone apartment, dropped the shield he felt undeserving of, and cried.

It had been months even since then, and they were no closer to finding Bucky, no closer to fixing things with Tony, and no closer to being himself again. Not that he was even sure what himself actually was at this point. He’d taken to wearing the jacket Bucky had left with him whenever he was home, which at this point was a lot, half-convincing himself that he could still smell the smokiness and spiciness of it after all this time.

And as much as he hated it, Lance had practically become his rock. Natasha and Sam tried their best, but that meant sympathy, and that meant a reminder of all the reasons they were sympathetic. He rarely visited Avenger’s tower, but he got the same looks there too, those sad knowing looks even worse than when he first came out of the ice.

But Lance, Lance did not care one bit what was going on in his life. He never looked sympathetic, Steve had never even seen him look sad, or angry, or anything other than smugness and perpetual horniness. The closest he’d ever seen to stoicism was the look of concentration he’d have as he performed one of his gymnastic routines that Steve would occasionally catch on TV.  

And he actually made Steve feel things, made him laugh or smile no matter how much he tried to hide it. And not always good things either, sometimes it was frustration or irritation or even anger. But he actually _felt._

It was so easy to forget about the shitstorm his life had turned into as of late, even if Lance shared the same face of the man who’d, unintentionally or not, been the cause of all of his sadness lately. He was perilously close to developing feelings, feelings he _knew_ were misplaced and all part of this weird fantasy he’d created. But it was thrilling, too, to have this little secret, one part of his life that no-one, bar Natasha probably, knew it was still ongoing. He hadn’t even told Sam, aside from the vague allusions to venting his frustrations in a healthy way. Healthy being relative, of course.

 

* * *

 

 

“James,” Shuri said, her usually cheery expression gone in lieu of a furrowed brow, “This might be a little more complicated than I first thought.”

Bucky knew something like this was bound to happen. It was one of the reasons he didn’t want Steve to know about his treatment, didn’t want him to get his hopes up over and over again that he might get the old Bucky back. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face, “How so?”

“Well, you did a good job of putting up your own psychological walls. Almost too good of a job. You’ve got a lot of repressed memories, all stacked underneath each other, but the trigger words are interlinked with a lot of your earliest which is making access to remove them even harder.”

“Ok, but what does that actually mean?” he was trying not to get frustrated, but it was hard. He knew she was trying to help him, but repressed memories of not he could still hear Zola’s voice talking to him like he was nothing more than a test subject.

“Well, we’ll have to remove your own mental restrictions first. Which is not too difficult itself, but it will have side effects, unfortunately,” Shuri said as compassionately as she could, “It’s almost like undoing any recuperation you’ve made over the past few years. Which in any other case I would avoid at all costs, but I’m afraid it’s not possible here.”

“Fuck,” he closed his hand into a fist, shaking with the restraint of not slamming it against the table in fury, “ _Fuck._ So, what, I’m going to be some psycho killer again?”

“No, no, nothing like that. You’ll have all of your memories until now, and all of your emotions too, you’ll have access to _all_ of them, which is the issue. It’s not about you being a danger to us, more you being a danger to yourself. And, we have no guarantee that it won’t permanently damage your mental state.”

Bucky stayed silent.

“There is a method we can use, but given your history... I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”

“Just spit it out, doc.”

“If we cryogenically freeze you we will be able to remove the specific neuron pathways with electrical impulses without further deterioration of your brain cells or of other pathways. Of course it is not completely without risk; it’s merely a smaller one than if you were in your conscious state.”

“But I’ll be free of them, the words?”

“Yes, most certainly.”

He finally looked up at her, “I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been an exceptionally bad day. An exceptionally bad week, to be honest.

The Smithsonian had decided to end their Howling Commandos exhibit after a protestor had tried to vandalise it, convinced that the files Natasha had released detailing HYDRA’s activities and brainwashing of James Buchanan Barnes were a cover up to protect the reputation of a traitor who was too ingrained in American history for the government to accept his crimes. If it had been the one incident perhaps they would have kept it open, but the man actually had an outpouring of support from people across the country, and the museum decided to protect their assets.

When Steve had quietly asked to have some of his and his friend’s old possessions back they had refused. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that they’d want to keep their prize display items, less likely for them to be destroyed in their own vault than in a box in Captain America’s house, but he was certainly disappointed that he couldn’t have the diaries at least.

Back in the 40s he might have put up more of a fight, insisted it was his right to have his possessions back, or at least the people’s right to have items on display rather than holed up in a backroom collection for superiority points, that they shouldn’t back down in the face of adversity. But right now he didn’t really have it in him. While a lot of people did believe the truth, he knew nothing would really change the minds of those who wanted to believe the opposite. And often the people who believe something with such blind vitriol were exactly the people who would think nothing of using violence and destruction to make their points known. As for the museum’s denial of his request; to be honest, he didn’t really think he deserved them, especially considering the amount that Howard Stark had donated to the exhibit, both physical and monetary. 

It would have been miserable enough, if it hadn’t thrust him back into the spotlight, reporters dogging his every footstep, asking him probing questions, trying to catch him out. He had steadfastly refused to even look at the magazines that printed all this shit, had had to delete all his social media apps after hordes of notifications from supporters (welcome, but repetitive) and haters alike, too. Usually Natasha or Sam would keep him up to date on these things, or even Tony in his jokey teasing way, but his phone had pretty much been constantly off in the first place to avoid all those ‘just checking in’ texts. He’d only turned it on when he wanted to text Lance, and even then, he avoided looking at the obtrusive red notification number climbing higher and higher.

Frowning, he realised he hadn’t actually seen Lance since the week before, and suddenly he found himself eager for him. It wasn’t as though he was busy as of late anyway; his plan for the day was just to binge watch some of the shows his fellow avengers had recommended. He scooped his phone up from the coffee table, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for it to turn back on.

He tried not to feel guilty sweeping past Sam’s last text ( _VA tonight?)_ in favour of selecting his and Lance’s message thread, lips quirking up at the eggplant emoji he still had in his name.

_Do you want to come over?_

**_Looking for us to be on the front page? Kinky_ **

_What?_

**_Figured you wouldn’t read tabloids_ **

**_They’re hungry for your ass_ **

**_I mean so am I, but I thought you might want to protect your delicate sensibilities and not have it plastered all over the news_ **

_Is it that bad?_

**_Apparently, you’re enjoying the bachelor lifestyle with too many takeaways and have a caffeine addiction_ **

_What the fuck?_

**_[One attachment]_ **

Steve looked at the slightly blurry photo, a quick shot of a magazine spread with multiple pictures of him at his window drinking coffee and eating a cold slice of pizza for breakfast. Fuck. He’d thought he’d moved away quick enough to avoid them, but apparently they were primed and ready for any news about him.

_Fuck._

_Please tell me there’s not more_

**_Oh there’s plenty of juicy shit_ **

**_Mostly bullshit ofc but still funny_ **

_I’m glad you’re getting a kick out of this._

**_Hey, don’t blame me, they have some great shots of your ass_ **

**_Which is real fucking shitty of them since I can’t come over and fuck you_ **

**_Unless you want to really give them something to talk about...?_ **

_I’ll pass, thanks._

He waited a few minutes, debating his next reply, before he hastily typed out his suggestion and pressed send.

_Can’t you come in disguise or something? I’m not the only one who lives here after all_

**_Wow you really are gagging for it, aren’t you?_ **

**_They interviewed the old woman who lives downstairs from you_ **

**_So them seeing a sexy, irresistible man on his way to your place probably won’t slide_ **

_Fuck, they got to Betty?_

**_I’m taking careful note of the lack of denial of a) you gagging for it and b) me being irresistible_ **

_No comment._

**_Do you know how to use skype?_ **

_Uh, yes?_

**_Do you still have that dildo?_ **

_Jesus, where did that come from?_

**_Put two and two together, big boy_ **

**_You, me, skype, that dildo_ **

**_A good time for all_ **

_I’ll be ready in five minutes_

Ducking down to fix his hair in the mirror and ensuring his bathrobe was very firmly tied, he padded over carefully to the window, winching at the flash of cameras as he pulled the blinds of his front room and his bedroom resolutely closed. They could print whatever they like about his reasons for doing so, but he didn’t want to risk his proclivity for self-pleasure actually being exposed.

Satisfied that his apartment was as media-proof as it was going to get (and thank god that he had long since had soundproofing), he grabbed his laptop, the one he’d bought himself to avoid any SHIELD or Stark spyware, and set it up on the nightstand, angled so it would see most of his body if he lay just right on the bed.

He slid his robe off into a crumpled pile on the floor, half-hard as he fished the dildo out from the very back of his drawer. He hadn’t actually used it in a while, not since Lance had found it a few weeks ago, teased him with unabashed glee, and then proceeded to use it to edge him half the night, but he was eager to just get something in him to relieve his stress.

Settling onto his side on the bed, took a few moments to tease his cock with one hand, letting the other roam across his hip and dip between his cheeks, rubbing across his hole coyishly, wanting to leave most of the show for Lance.

He pulled his hand away and finally booted up his laptop, tapping the keys one-handedly while his stroked himself. Eventually he hit the call button for Lance, and the man must have been waiting for him for it was accepted almost immediately, his chest and garish tattoo in the background while his prominent erection filled up most of the screen. He couldn’t actually see his face though, and said so, shuffling himself onto his front so that his whole body was in view, a long sensual line from his broad shoulders to his ass.

Lance huffed, but moved the camera up so his face was visible, “You can see whatever you like if you give me more of that view,”

Steve hummed and pulled back onto his knees, letting Lance see him stroking his cock as he reached back into the nightstand to grab the lube. Turning his back to the laptop, with only a quick glance behind to make sure he was in shot, he sat up straight and ran his hands over his body, sliding down to knead his ass.

He could hear Lance groaning behind him, and the slick pump of him fisting his cock, the sounds bolstering him as he spread his cheeks to give him a tantalising glimpse of his hole.

“Fuck, Steve,” Lance moaned, tinny over the speak, but no less hot, “Can’t wait to see your ass stuffed full of that fake dick.”

Squatting down more on his knees, he pushed his ass out for Lance to see, eventually supporting himself with both hands on the bedspread and shaking his hips just so. He let Lance drink up the sight for a little while, before sitting back on his heels to lube up his fingers, once again rubbing them against his sphincter, but this time pressing his index finger in. His middle finger quickly joined, and he scissored them open, loving working himself open.

“Bend over more, baby, give me a better view of that greedy hole.”

He did so, holding himself up with one hand as he held his pinky and thumb together to give him room to insert a third finger. He was enjoying himself so much that he almost forgot about the dildo waiting for him on the sheets, moaning loudly when he caught sight of it. Pulling his fingers out, he reached over and took the silicone in hand.

“Holy shit look at you, so fucking hot,” Lance breathed out. Steve glanced over at the screen and saw that he’d wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, strokes now slow as he tried to stave off his orgasm, clearly wanting to avoid the whole show longer. He grinned at the wrecked look on Lance’s face.

Steve’s own cock was bobbing obscenely in front of him, pre-cum beading at the head. He gave it a few tugs before letting go, choosing instead to bring the dildo up to slide teasingly between his ass cheeks, catching it every so often on his hole. His moan matched Lance’s when he finally slid it in, feeling that stretch he missed so much. It wasn’t quite the same without the warm chest he usually had pressed to his back, nor without the breathy hot moans on his neck, but he could hear the appreciation Lance had for the sight of his body alone and it thrilled him.

He pumped the dildo in out and slowly a few times, slicking it up with the residual lube, then worked his wrist faster, angling the cock just so it brushed across his prostate with each stroke. He panted out lewdly with each thrust, imagining that the object inside of him was Lance, but he wanted more, wanted hands running across his skin. Pulling the dildo out, he flipped around onto his back, legs splayed wide and hole barred to the webcam. With one foot on the pillows and the other raised a little on the side table, he scrambled for the dildo again. His thrusts were slower with the awkward angle, but the new position allowed him to pinch and tease his nipples, throwing his head back in pleasure as he did so.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he heard Lance shout out. He rolled his head to the side, watching the screen dazedly as Lance, fingers wet with lube, almost mirrored his position, a hand massaging his balls before dropping lower to finger himself as the other hand still kept up the pace on his cock. It wasn’t long after the second finger pushed in that he cried out again and with jerking hips he came all over his hand.

Steve sped up the motion of his wrist, and brought his hand to his cock, muttering out nonsense words as he brought himself closer to the edge.

“Come on Steve, that’s it, make yourself come,” Lance slurred out, and that was all it took before Steve was clenching down around the dildo and spilling over himself.

They both lay sprawled out on their respective sides of the camera, sleepy and sated, neither having enough energy to end the call.

“Damn, I wish I’d recorded that.”

“Fuck you, Lance.”

“What? Just for my personal collection.”

“Well, hopefully all this press stuff will die down soon so you won’t need your personal collection.”

“Promises, promises, Steve,” he laughed, “You ready to go again?”

“It’s been two minutes.”

“Uh, yeah, don’t think I’ve forgotten how fast you can get it back up if you really try. God bless that serum.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “So what if I can, it’s not like you can jerk off to it for another hour anyway.”

“Ouch, that hurts me Steve. An hour? Give twenty minutes, ten if you put on another show.”

He grumbled, but sat up a little anyway, scooping up some of his release and rubbing his dick for Lance to see. He watched the gymnast lie back smugly watching the show but couldn’t find it in him to complain about his arrogance today.

It wasn’t until later, much later, when darkness had long since fallen and Steve had cleaned up that he realised he hadn’t thought about Bucky the whole time, even when he’d closed his eyes to imagine the dildo was real.

 

* * *

  

“How is our White Wolf’s recovery going?” T’Challa asked, smiling over at his sister who was typing furiously on her tablet.

“Ah, my King finally graces us with his presence,” she trilled excitedly, shoving the tablet down and giving him an over exaggerated bow.

“That got old years ago,” he said, but greeted her with a hug and their little handshake.

“A lot has happened since you’ve been gone,” she said, pulling up a screen on her Kimoyo beads, a view apparently into James Barnes’ brain, neurological links that were broken and some reformed, “We removed the walls he put up _and_ the triggers. We thought it might be a bit touch and go when he woke up, but he seems to be mostly stable.”

“Only mostly?”

“Yes, well, the human mind has a great capacity for healing, and we had to undo all of that. So right now he’s rather emotionally unstable. Severely, anxious, paranoid, depressed. Has very bad PTSD. All of this he had previously either repressed or found coping mechanisms for, but he will have to have extensive therapy before I’m happy to leave him unmonitored. He’s made no attempt to do so yet, but we have him on suicide watch as a precaution.”

T’Challa watched her pull up the feed of him in the medical centre, a private room of course, clean and stark white with very few items that weren’t bolted to the floor. He took another look at the man sitting morosely on the bed, book discarded on the bedspread and head in one hand, “You removed his arm?”

“Ah, yes, that was another unforeseen circumstance. Not only was it a danger to him, but the sight of it alone sent him into a violent panic attack after he woke up. We managed to calm him without sedatives, but not before he half destroyed one of the medical bays. He was the one who requested its removal,” she tapped on the beads once again, blueprints for something flashing before them, “I’ve been busy designing a new arm for him. HYDRA really did have no taste, and no skill. But that synthetic skin I’ve been working on could work perfectly above a new vibranium base.”

“Always eager to improve things that function perfectly well,” he teased.

“Why settle when you can have the best technology in the world!”

“If you say so,” he rolled his eyes, “Anyway, is he ok to have visitors? I would like to speak to him.”

“Of course, just ask him over the intercom if he’s feeling up to it. These past few days have been hard for him, just so you know.”

He nodded sagely, thanking his sister before heading towards the medical centre.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky was trying very hard to distract himself from his own thoughts. It was a challenge trying to read with one hand, but he managed, and it bolstered him, felt like something of an achievement that he wasn’t totally useless and dependent on others.

Sometimes the novels were a great way to escape from them for a while, but there would always be something, some reminder of who he was and what he’d done that he’d be thrust right back into the downward spiral.

He had initially tried to read some of his old favourites, H.G Wells and Jules Verne, but he found himself disorientated and confused with his surroundings when he stopped with them, memories of him reading in his old brownstone so strong that he was sure he could smell their stew simmering on the stove, could practically taste the stale bread and soggy vegetables, could feel the warmth of Steve at his side, feet tucked under Bucky’s thigh as he sketched his latest commission. He’d quickly stopped reading them.

His therapist said it might be good to move on, to try some new novels he’d never read before, so he tried some more modern sci-fi, Ray Bradbury and George Orwell, but the sci-fi he once loved was now all too real, all dystopian instead of awe-inspiring wonder. He’d even tried Slaughterhouse Five, but within minutes he’d torn the book to shreds and had a panic attack.

Then it had been children’s books. He’d baulked at his therapist when she suggested it, but he read a few and actually enjoyed them. Enjoyed the innocent adventures of The Famous Five or Nancy Drew, but he found it could also be a minefield. For as many sweet and charming novels, there were those with the undercurrent of something too close to home. Narnia, as the series went on, was increasingly hard to get through, the passage of time from the real word to Narnia just as jarring as in his own life, and by the end he wished he’d never read them, never had that hopeful world he’d experienced in the beginning shattered by the bleak ending of death. Harry Potter too; he had just barely made it past the third book, the plot line of an innocent man imprisoned, and a good man considered a monster hard-hitting but somewhat manageable, but when it came to the unforgivable curses, the imperious curse, he put the series down and shoved it as far back under his bed as possible.

It was Okoye who recommended the romance novels to him. Well, it had mostly been a joke after she caught him reading a Wakandan kid’s book about a prince who gave up his throne for his love.

“Ha! White Wolf I would never have pegged you as one for love stories!” she’d said.

“Is that what this is?” he said, frowning at the cover. He’d actually only been on the second chapter, plot not yet fully formed in the face of world building.

“Ah, don’t let me spoil the ending for you,” she grinned, “But yes. My sister loved books like these, well the racier ones anyway. I would catch her reading those romance novels, you know the ones about a hot tribal leader who seduces the poor farm girl.”

“Uh... they write those?”

“Hah! There are _thousands._ I could get some for you, if you like?”

He finally closed the book he had before rested on his lap, setting it on the nightstand, “What exactly are they about?”

“All sorts of things. But usually it’s a sad, lonely woman who meets a strong, handsome man who sweeps her off his feet. Followed by very badly written sex,” she brought up her Kimoyo beads, showing him the cover of a novel apparently about a... pirate? At least the title, ‘A Pirate’s Pleasure’, seemed to indicate this, along with the image of a muscular topless man in an embrace with a red-haired woman whose breasts were barely contained by her clothes.

He raised his brows higher and higher as she swiped through a variety more, all with similarly scantily clad men and women sprawled across the front, all with a cheesy and kind of embarrassing title. She was going through them relatively fast, but one specific image caught his eye and almost had him choking.

“Go back for a second,” he said, leaning forward in his seat and telling her to stop when she reached the page.

Seeing what it was, she grinned wolfishly, “Ah yes, there is a whole subset dedicated to that if you want.”

He looked up at her, and then back to the book cover in front of him. It certainly wasn’t as raunchy as the others he’d seen, instead it was quite sweet; one dark haired bearded man pressing a kiss to a shorter blonde haired man while they lay on either a bed or a sofa. It still had the cheesy title, ‘Made for You’, but Bucky found he didn’t mind all too much.

It was still a shock, to see homosexuality so out in the open when back in his day it was practically a death sentence in some neighbourhoods. Theirs had been a lot more lax than others, with more than an few confirmed bachelors and spinsters around, but still he had never dared to act, even if his eyes often lingered too long on Steve. Especially because his eyes had lingered, and especially because he never got a single sign that Steve would have been interested in him. He didn’t think Steve would rat him out, in fact he knew he wouldn’t, but it wouldn’t ever be the same between them again.

And so he’d stuck to girls he never really felt anything for, slight little things that he could image were someone else. Most of the time he would douse himself in enough aftershave to mask any lingering sweetness of their perfume, but went along when they kissed him, when they slid a hand down his slacks in their parent’s borrowed car, kept his thoughts on lithe muscles and a smart mouth when he fucked them on the upholstered seats.

He was brought back to the present sharply by Okoye’s amused cough as she switched off the beads, “I’ll pick you up a mix. The writing is always terrible, but they’re great to read for a bit of fun.”

“Uh, actually, just the, um, just the male ones are fine.”

“Sure thing,” she reached her hand out, waiting for Bucky’s nod before she patted him gently on the shoulder, “See you around, White Wolf.”

She’d come through on her offer not long after, a selection of a dozen or so paperback novels with half naked men posing on the covers. He let himself admire them every now and then, enjoying the vague stirrings of arousal that he’d not entertained for seventy years. It would be a while before he would feel anywhere near ok enough to actually sustain an erection, but it was nice just to look for looking’s sake.

 


End file.
